


Raze

by greendragon_templar



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: 1901, Gen, Historical Hetalia, Sydney Plague, and fics about diseases, angst occurs because England has lived through like a billion plagues and Australia hasn't, different views on nationhood from both parties, i can write two things: Australia and England fighting, letter format
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-10
Updated: 2019-05-10
Packaged: 2020-02-29 18:05:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18783385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/greendragon_templar/pseuds/greendragon_templar
Summary: If I die, I’ll be better by the morning. I don’t mind it. I’ve never minded it. It’s all you.





	Raze

**Author's Note:**

  * For [historia_vitae_magistras](https://archiveofourown.org/users/historia_vitae_magistras/gifts).



> So just a heads-up, the bolded dialogue is from a letter that England wrote to Australia prior to the story, in response to a letter which Australia originally wrote to him. The text in italics is from the letter that Australia is currently writing back. If you read the bolded section all together, and then the section in italics, both should read as entirely separate and complete letters. I hope.
> 
> I haven't managed to write anything in a month or two but when speaking to historia-vitae-magistras earlier the idea came up about how nations with less worldly 'experience' might have a more self-destructive or less self-protective view of themselves and their place in the world, and are more willing to put themselves at risk, than countries who have seen much more and feel a greater need to shut themselves off and watch out for their own safety, even if it's all in their heads. It's especially interesting to think about in the context of nations who have lived through massive epidemics that, in my head, were so devastating as to bring them to the point of death, but not actually kill them. 
> 
> I've also been wanting to bring up the Sydney plague in a fic for a while because it's always really surprising to hear that the plague was still a thing in the early 20th century, due in Australia to people's proximity to ports and the amount of slums and rats. Knowing of the historical impacts of the plague it would've been really terrifying.

1901 _._

It’s easier to confront England in person than on paper. Something about physical contact and a pair of ( _mostly_ human) eyes does wonders to his sense of shame, at least in recent years, and Australia’s learned to take advantage of it at every opportunity. No matter how many governors denounce him, however many premiers reject his counsel, and no matter how many times England references such events in their correspondence, a face-to-face encounter with him almost always goes Australia’s way. Apathy’s a useful tool, and if he was reluctant to engage with it in the past, the present accommodates only loathing, and it complements Australia’s detachment brilliantly.

He detaches himself from some things, some people, some nations, better than others. England’s suffering, compared to that of his own people, is invisible, in more ways than one.

The January plague is warm and close and unsettling in Australia’s mind, and not just due to the weather; blood and sores and pus figure boldly in his mind, ferry him back to the hours he spent at the bedsides of the quarantined, wanting to wake up. Hundreds feel like thousands, and it isn’t even as though all are confirmed cases, but that’s not enough to prevent him believing that they could be, that they _will_ be. Hundreds quarantined, in less than a year. Exeter Place and Johnstone’s Lane are torn to the ground. Darling Harbour, the Rocks, Sussex Street, reclaimed and swept clean by chemicals. The stench of lime chloride, the sting of it, lingers, entangling with the smoke; when he looked at the fires he may as well have been staring into the sun. But no stench was worse than that from burning rats. A few pence per rat wasn’t a bad incentive.

**How long do you plan to concern yourself with human trifles?**

It’s a troubling opening to a letter that will make Australia’s blood boil before it’s done.

He has a strong cup of tea before he pens his reply, frantically jiggling his knee, begging himself to concentrate. He _has_ to.

_I had nightmares about the plague. Do you remember? I reckon it was your fault. The stories you’d tell. I assume you thought it was doing me good._

He turns back to the letter **. I cannot fathom why you decided to tell me how you spent the entirety of last year.**

_I want to forget about your stupid stories. Don’t I have the right to decide how I want to spend my time? They hardly need me here anyway. They never consult me, as you know. Christ, you don’t know how it frightened me._

**Disease is nothing new to us – you know this.**

_I have seen disease everywhere I turn, and it always makes me think about London. I hate London._

**Now the new century beckons. Perhaps Federation will influence you.**

_I’m more aware than ever about the risks we face here, now. We aren’t living in the past. Don’t pretend to me that you see how it is. Don’t treat me like a child. Would it be better if I was arrogant? I don’t think it’s about age. It was never about age. You simply don’t care._

**We learn to blind ourselves, Australia, lest we begin to see fresh agony on every street corner.**

Australia has to pause, snatching at his own hands to quell the shaking. He both loves and detests letter-writing; it hurts his eyes, drives him mad to sit still, but to see the words take shape is, in at least some small sense, a victory. He feels satisfied by the conclusion, by the time he’s scratched a signature that England would criticise.

Fury takes him back to paper, where new lines of England’s letter greet him, and inspire his ongoing response.

_Nationhood shouldn’t just be an asset, or blessing, or whatever you’re going to call it. It’s an advantage to us. Who else will visit the quarantined?_

**Human affairs belong in human hands.**

_Nobody can tell I’m not like them, until I say. And they always look relieved._

**You must set yourself above this.**

_I’ve never minded it. There’s no difference between us and them. If there is, it’s all in our heads._

**It is ineffective to rely on reverence from your subjects. You are nothing without reverence for your own flesh.**

_I’m no one’s god. I’m not the bloody Messiah._

Australia barely realises he’s grinding his teeth.

**I told you those stories – cautionary tales, if you will – to imbue you with a sense of self-preservation. It disappoints me to see you rejecting it so readily and exposing yourself in the same moment.**

_You self-serving_ bastard _._

Australia’s pen stabs a sizeable hole in the paper, yet he rushes on.

_I would never pretend to be something I’m not. Putting myself on the line is all I can do. I’ve adapted to everything that you’ve brought to my shores. If I die, I’ll be better by the morning. I don’t mind it. I’ve never minded it. It’s all you._

He looks back at England’s letter, penned in mocking cursive. If it was any loopier, Australia would swear he was drunk while writing it. **You simply lack immunity at present** , it reads. **I can tell you about these things, but I cannot make you feel them. Accept that this is your initiation. Do not venture amongst their ranks again. You bring shame upon us both. They will see you as weak.**

_I can’t get sick. Who else can say that? We are born to be shields. It’s the most obvious thing in the world._

**These things pass.**

_I can go where they can’t. it gives me a thrill._

**Your presence makes no difference to them, by the end, when you cannot save them.**

_At least they know that I can see them, when I go. Quarantine is lonely, isn’t it?_

**Self-destructiveness is a sad trait in a Nation.**

_I’m not what you say I am. If I really wanted to be self-destructive, I’d take your advice on board. I never much liked nationhood._

He makes sure not to capitalise ‘nation’.

Australia burns England’s letter the second he finishes his own, with a haphazard signature he hopes will convey every other feeling he has injected into the reply.

_Love, Jack._


End file.
